


Dress Code

by Bobcatmoran



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Canon Era, Centaurs, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-10
Updated: 2016-12-10
Packaged: 2018-09-07 14:32:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8804593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bobcatmoran/pseuds/Bobcatmoran
Summary: A proper gentleman attires himself with great care, putting thorough consideration into each article of clothing, how the colors and patterns will interact to greatest effect, how the fit will lend itself towards the perfect silhouette. Centaurs are not proper gentlemen.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elphiethesane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elphiethesane/gifts).



Things that Courfeyrac had learned about centaurs before coming to Paris:  
1) They mostly lived in the hills and kept to themselves  
2) They were highly intelligent and you should never anger one  
3) Do not, under any circumstances, ask one if you can ride him or her

Things that had not been covered:  
1) The aforementioned #1 should be thrown out the window once you leave Gascony  
2) They were indeed highly intelligent and vicious if angered, but more in the sense of “will verbally eviscerate you” than “will kick you in the head.”  
3) In case of an emergency, say, an urgent need to contact another barricade that is halfway across the city, they will actually insist upon you riding them  
4) Human standards of dress are considered by them to be a necessary evil in mixed company, but are forsaken once in private

Courfeyrac was about to find number four on that list to be particularly troublesome on this unusually hot, late spring day. 

“…and so it should seem easy enough to persuade the satyrs. We’ll have to speak with Enjolras to see if he has anyone in mind.”

"Sorry, who?" Courfeyrac asked Combeferre, having been distracted by the latter's beard.

"The satyrs, at the Barrière du Maine. Enjolras mentioned that they might be willing to ally with us."

“What about Grantaire?” Courfeyrac asked.

“What about him?”

“Why not send him?”

“To the satyrs? Why?” Combeferre asked, confused.

“Well, isn’t he one?”

“No? He’s as human as you are.”

“Are you certain? He certainly could have fooled me.”

“Even the satyrs that are good at passing for human have pointed ears,” Combeferre said.

“Well, how can you tell then?” Courfeyrac asked. “His curls always seem to be covering the tops of his ears.”

“You get very good at noticing these little sort of things,” Combeferre said. “Wait, Courfeyrac, my building is right here, the one with the green door.”

It was the first time Courfeyrac ever been invited to Combeferre’s lodgings, a single room on the ground floor of a lodging-house whose occupants were mostly non-human immigrants to Paris. A satyr tipped his hat to them as they walked down the hall.

“Sorry in advance about the hairballs everywhere,” Combeferre apologized as he fiddled with the latch, turning his key this way and that as he jiggled it up and down. “My summer coat’s still coming in, and I can’t seem to keep up with the shedding.”

“Don’t trouble yourself about it,” Courfeyrac said. He peered in as Combeferre finally managed to get the door open. Courfeyrac was immediately struck by the height of the ceiling, which, he felt, gave the room a light and airy feel. On second thought, however, it was probably less of a luxury and more of a necessity for Combeferre who, although he was of sturdy Alpine stock and short for a centaur, was still taller than most humans. Aside from the room’s unusual dimensions, the most notable thing about it was the furniture. Among the sparse furnishings were a cluttered table whose legs were set at a height easily reachable by a standing centaur, a pile of cushions in lieu of a bed, and the human-sized washstand rather precariously balanced on a stack of books and bricks in order to bring it to a height comparable to that of the table. A pair of overflowing bookshelves against a wall completed the room.

Combeferre immediately made a beeline for the room’s lone chair, clearing off a pile of books and brushing a fine coating of ginger-colored hair off the seat. “Apologies. I don’t get a lot of visitors, so the chair ends up as just another horizontal surface.”

“My dear friend, there’s no need to keep apologizing,” Courfeyrac said, grinning. “You should see my own rooms. Students, I am reliably informed by my landlady, are terrible housekeepers. I am fairly certain there is a chaise lounge somewhere in my bedroom, but it has not seen the light of day in ages, as it serves as a resting place for incoming correspondence, books, pamphlets, shirts that need to go the laundress, and most anything else I am too lazy to put away properly. I figure it serves as a fine deterrence for any who would seek to look for seditious material, as it’s all quite buried. It’s like one of those rocks of yours, with all the layers. Wait, are you changing clothes?” he asked, noticing Combeferre pulling off his cravat with a surprising vehemence.

“Just taking off some layers of my own,” Combeferre said. “I appreciate the sensibility of wearing three or more separate layers of clothing in the winter, but don’t understand how you humans can put yourself through such torture on a day such as this.”

“I…oh. All right,” Courfeyrac managed to get out as not only the cravat, but frock coat, waistcoat, and shirt were shed in short order. With Bahorel and Jean Prouvaire as friends, casual nudity was not exactly an exceptional occurrence, but there was something very…distracting…about the dusting of ginger hair on Combeferre’s chest and the stiff ridge of it that trailed down his back, and his stomach, and his…er…well, _everything_. A part of his brain traitorously pointed out that Combeferre was not wearing trousers (how would trousers for centaurs work? asked another part of his brain. And how could a centaur manage to put them on by themselves? Perhaps that’s why they live in herds, so they can aid each other with dressing, like with those back-lacing doublets that Prouvaire sometimes wore…)

“Courfeyrac? Courfeyrac, are you all right? You’re looking quite flushed,” Combeferre said, snapping Courfeyrac out of his reverie.

Courfeyrac blinked and found Combeferre, now wearing some sort of loose tunic that bared his arms, bent very close indeed to his face.

“Here, I have an extra tunic,” Combeferre volunteered, turning back to his wardrobe. “It’s much more healthful in weather like this.”

“I…no, I’m fine,” Courfeyrac said.

“Well, if you’re certain?”

Courfeyrac nodded, trying hard not to stare at Combeferre’s biceps.

Combeferre gave him a long, measured look. “I will get you a glass of water at least. And then I shall see about finding that copy of _L’Industrie_ for you. I think that you’ll find Saint-Simon’s views most enlightening…”

**Author's Note:**

> There is [fanart](http://elphiethesane.tumblr.com/post/155477989813/i-smell-brie-im-coming-in-so-for-les-mis-winter) for this, drawn by my lovely recipient, elphiethesane!


End file.
